


for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch

by postfixrevolution



Series: rage, rage against the dying of the light [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Deathly Hallows compliant, F/M, Postwar AU, Prosthetic Limbs, but it's really light so it's maybe okay, but not the epilogue, but that could be because of the romeo and juliet quote oops, can be read romantically, no magic, oops i forgot to mention light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>—and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."</i><br/> </p><p>alternatively: He tells her there is nothing that he regrets; she presses her palm against the cold metal of his own and believes it with all her heart.</p><p>postwar AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch

**Author's Note:**

> Series previously titled: do not go gentle into that goodnight

Hermione clocks in at 6:30 in the morning. The air outside her office is frigid, nipping at any and all of her bare skin and reminding her that snow could be coming sooner than later. Through her large glass windows, she sees autumn beautifully dying, and the world is the same color as her eyes — ochre, earthen brown — as it prepares to be swallowed by whites and greys. With a wistful smile, she turns away from the sight and slips on her spotless white lab coat. Hermione turns on lights and unlocks doors, preparing for an honest day's work. 

An hour before opening time, she sits down on her dark cherry wood desk and reviews her schedule for the day. She tucks her pen behind her ear just as she did her wand when she was younger, but it's been years since she was required to have that keepsake by her side. She had given up that privilege when she chose to leave fading childhood loves and unreal, magical realities. He was happy now, she's sure, judging by one of the few moving photos she allows herself to have. They have families, most of them, or careers immersed in magic. She's so comfortable in her Muggle office in Muggle London that she can't imagine going back to the hectic life of a wizarding hero. 

This a new book in her life, completely separate from that of her childhood, filled with mystical fancy and dangerous adventure. There's nothing left of the prodigious young witch, Hermione Granger, save sparse letters to old friends and grandiose accounts in newly written history books. It's strange how peace makes life seem so much smaller than it felt when you worried every moment if you'd be alive the next. It was hard to separate the tranquility from the content sometimes, the melancholy from the old restlessness. There were nights when Hermione sat by her window and traced the wood carvings of her wand in the pale moonlight. There were more where she collapsed immediately upon returning home, loving the way honestly, Muggle-made exhaustion and fulfillment mingled in her blood, and fell asleep with a rare peace. 

At 7:30, thirty minutes before opening time, the bell on her front door twinkles. She doesn't need to look up to see who it is because he arrives at the same time every day, so constant that she would bet her entire life savings on his presence the next day. Like clockwork, he places a cardboard cup of warm tea on the corner of her desk — silver needle and chrysanthemum — and walks past, beginning the tedious process of unlocking file cabinets and fishing out the papers on each of her patients for the day. The familiar faint chafe of metal cabinet against metal fingers is soothing. She watches him work, setting down her pen for a moment, and, in the deft movement of his left arm, is reminded of one reason why she loves her job so much. 

"You're not done with your own work yet, Granger," the man scoffs lightly, not a hint of malice to it. "As I remind you of everyday." She smiles softly, sips at her tea. 

"It's Hermione, not Granger, as I remind _you_ of daily," she repartees. He responds with an amused snort. "Tsk, tsk; arguing with your employer now, are you, Malfoy? How shameless." 

"Employer?" Draco Malfoy echoes. "You don't pay me, _Granger_ ," he retorts, emphasizing her name with the petulance of a child. 

She clucks her tongue at him, huffing dramatically as she eyes the small upward tilt of his lips. Still watching him, she picks up her cup again, letting the warmth permeate through the material and into her hands. The light from the ceilings glints off his left arm, composed completely of metal and rivets, and one of her greatest pieces of work. This is what she does now. It's magic in its own right, she believes, being able to give people another chance at life with a few scraps of metal and some wires. 

For Draco, it really was another chance at life: his entire left forearm in exchange for a life of not having to cover the sinister mark on his arm, of not having to walk on the other side of the street lest he be shoved to the ground for just breathing too close to someone. She still hasn't forgotten, more than two years ago, when he knocked on her door at four in the morning and held out his left arm and wand to her, telling her he didn't want them anymore. It was dark that night, and from the window down the hall of her apartment entrance, there was the faint light of a dying moon and it made his face look gaunt and feral. 

"There's nothing here to look at, Hermione," Draco mutters suddenly, absently. "It's just me." She blinks, torn out of her memories, and takes a long sip of her tea. There's no response; Hermione simply turns back around and continues reviewing the notes on her patients. 

They are silent until her first patient arrives, and she puts on a smile as she leads him through physical therapy exercises and Draco heads to the backroom to do whatever it is he does when she is busy. He's probably cleaning up or organizing, knowing the mess she likes to leave when she's too exhausted to clean up before leaving. The thought makes the smile sit more naturally on her face. 

She takes the man through checkups and exercises, talks him through maintenance and warnings, sees him out with a kind farewell. He has a prosthetic shin and runs marathons in his spare time. Hermione can remember staying up for three straights nights drafting the design. The sole reason she ate anything and finally slept after the third day is currently sitting atop a file cabinet, watching her as she collapses into her chair well after the man had left. He sips his own drink as he does so. She doesn't know what it is, even after two years, but has memorized the scent of peppermint in the air around him. 

"Tired already?" he quips, smirking down at her. She shoots him a pointed look, briefly sticking her tongue out at him. He remains cooly unaffected. 

"Not really," she eventually responds. "His name is Harrison, you know. A war veteran." 

Draco hums in acknowledgment; he knows. "You got a letter from Potter last night, then?" he asks without missing a beat. 

"Two nights ago," she corrects, sitting up straighter in her chair. She takes her tea and sips at the cold remains. "I was too exhausted to read it until yesterday. Albus is turning 10, he says. And everyone sends me their regards, wishing me well." 

"What, no threats toward me from boy Weasley yet?" he snorts. 

"You know very well why there aren't any, Draco," she responds with a sigh, pursing her lips. 

He grows serious for a second, releases a heavy sigh himself. "I don't see why I'm something to brag about to your friends, so I'd quit insisting on mentioning me," he says curtly. 

"I wrote home to my parents about Harry and Ron after I knew them for two days, Draco. I've known you for over two _years_ , and the only one who I can say that to is you." 

"Am I not enough, then?" he bites back, scowling. 

Hermione immediately frowns, setting down her cup and standing up. She marches over to Draco and rips his drink out of his hands, pulling him off the file cabinet and forcing him to stand. He's taller than her, but only by a few inches. All she has to do is tilt her head slightly to look him in the eyes, and she does so with her hands clenched by her sides. He avoids her gaze, the scowl still prominent on his face. 

"Draco, you are going to look me in the eye," she hisses, and when he does, his intense grey eyes bore into her own, like winter skies as they swallow autumn brown. Hermione's gaze softens at the tenseness she sees in his jaw. Her eyes flicker downward and gently, she picks up his left arm; she traces the grain of the steel plates that she fashioned herself, the metal fingers that she spent nights full of solder burns and steel cuts assembling. "What could _ever_ make you think that you're not enough?" she whispers, shaking her head in disappointment. She doesn't look at his face as she stares at his artificial limb, but she knows he never stops being aware of her earthen eyes on him. 

"I've done terrible things," he murmurs ruefully, and she is quick to cut him off. 

"Everything you have done," she interjects firmly, "has had a purpose." His fingers move to curl into a fist, but she stops them, gently pulling them back. His palm is open, facing up toward her, and he can't feel the patterns she traces on it. 

"For spite, survival, love... And for redemption. Yes, Draco, terrible actions are terrible, but redeeming actions redeem. And cleaning up for me, getting me tea in the mornings, everything. They are _more_ than enough. So don't say they aren't." 

Draco is silent and deathly still. Somehow, Hermione can't find the resolve to look back up and meet his gaze. She waits, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Past him, she can see snow starting to fall just outside the window, covering the brown tree trunks with flecks of white. When he softly clears his throat, she starts, looking up at him with bright, wide eyes. His gaze is averted, lips pursed as he mutters, "You've no right to tell me what to do... Not even my employer, Granger." 

"Draco," she begins, and he abruptly cuts her off with an exclamation of, "Shut up for once, Hermione." She shuts her mouth. "Now listen to me." 

Bending down to more evenly meet her eyes, he tells her sincerely there is nothing that he regrets; she smiles, presses her palm against the cold metal of his own and believes it with all her heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> Probably one of my first OTPs from forever ago, and I haven't written for them since the trashy middle school days that we _don't talk about_.
> 
> May or may not become part of a series in this universe. I'm a lazy person. Opinions?


End file.
